My 30 Confessions
by atreriaestus
Summary: Larxene/Marluxia. These are our lives. Our memories, or pains, our lessons to learn. These are our confessions. ::Mature. Spoilers.::
1. Theme 16: Look :Electricity In Her Eyes:

**Title: **Heaven In Your Eyes.  
**Prompt: **Theme 16: "Look."  
**Rating: **Older Teen, vague references to sex.  
**Author's Notes: **Whooo, first chapter! I knew there was no way in hell I could go in order, so I just picked one that struck me. Unfortunately, FF is not very html-friendly, so if you'd like the link to the master list, all I can say is go to my profile and click my LJ. It's a public entry, so you should easily be able to find it.  
**Disclaim: **I need not one! I am ... Nomura Hiasobi? ... No. Just ... just no.

* * *

He saw electricity in her eyes. As cliché as it sounded, it only made him feel alive, to be able wallow in memories that could only be substantial enough for simple satisfaction. There was only room for one.

When those hues were imprisoned in full golden lashes, he felt the memory of sadness flicker behind his mind. And then she read that book—that horrible, vile tome—her eyes were open for hours. Amusement would glitter in the crystal depths and make her lips curl the way, transversely, his insides coiled.

In fact, when they had very first met, he had been lost in the brilliant azure and verdant hues. She only regarded him with contempt, sleek flaxen brows furrowed indignantly; demanding to know what he was looking at with a visage that more than told him she felt like a cornered animal.

But he hadn't meant to corner her; he only wanted to touch her, this creature that he knew would worm beneath his skin.

Now, well … he was holding her, stroking her, making her elicit all the soft sounds of a woman who could have been, might have been in love at some point.

Even when he touched her with the most clandestine means, she kept her eyes open for him, those radiant depths practically glowing at him through the darkness.

No, not just her eyes … all of her.

All of her illuminated his path. The soft curve of her spine the road he would travel to attain his desires, pressing petal-soft kisses against the arches of her shoulder blades: up, up, climbing the alabaster to meet his lips on her jaw.

That electricity was on him in a flash, and it crackled in his every nerve, making him growl in the purest sense, so feral for the confirmation that she was his and his alone. And when she kissed him, took his lips upon hers with the softest grace one would think no Savage Nymph could muster, he melted to her, and each mound and depression fit so perfectly.

"Why do you do that?"

The question had come from out of the blue, and he tilted his head up from his gardening to regard her with a curious gaze. Anxiety—or what could have been anxiety—pooled in the depths of his stomach, but nigh did he let it show on his face.

"What ever do you mea—?"

He was interrupted. "When you look at me … why do you look at me like that? You're the only one in this condemned place that looks me in the eye."

He paused to consider. Oh, into the throes of passion he could pull her into, or the wiles of lust she could be siphoned unto: or would he be given a chance to sooth the trapped fiend she still seemed to be?

"I like them. Your eyes, I mean."

And suddenly that blue-green heaven turned sinful, wicked and delicious, the preemptive heralding of something … magnificent.

_Sweet nymph, just look where we are now. _


	2. Theme 9: Jealousy :Counterfeit:

**Title: **You Can't Catch Love With An Arrow Or A Gun.  
**Prompt: **Theme 9: "Jealousy".  
**Word Count: **615.  
**Rating: **Older Teen, vague references to sex.  
**Author's Notes: **Ha. I love the rivalry between Lexeaus and Marluxia. Opens so many doors for Larxene me. There's also a few inside-joke things that only my girlfriend and I would get.  
**Disclaim:** The characters belong to Tetsuya Nomura and Squeenixney, but ... I like to watch 'em dance.

* * *

There were so very many things about that regal woman he loved.

A sharp tongue with a wit that would match his own, intelligence that could quite possibly surpass his own, her small frame that belied none of the vehement power she held within, the deadly angles of her eyes when she was sparkling with malice, that raw sexuality that just radiated off of her … really, he could go on for hours.

But … there were so very many things about that damnable woman that he hated.

The sharp tongue with a wit that would defeat his own, intelligence that more than likely surpassed his own, her small frame that hid all to well the raging, unpredictable power within, the deadly angles of her eyes when she was sparkling with malice that just may be aimed at him, and … most of all that raw sexuality that just radiated off of her … but really, he could go on for days.

And that absolute lure of sensuality she had, knew she had, knew she could use … well, she did indeed use it. It was only small things for the most part, lest someone get suspicious how she managed to get out of _this pointless mission here _or pilfer _that luscious confection there _from Xaldin's high-security kitchen.

Actually, it was a rather simple formula to her: swivel hips + narrow eyes lustfully + a little extra lip-shine getting what I want. It was just like any other statistic or equation to her, the very same Zexion or Vexen would use on paper for experimentation. She just applied her charm in a more … physical manner. With every success came some risk, after all.

Marluxia did not approve. It was obvious from the grimace he wore when he was so fortunate enough to be spectator to her trickery. But even she would have to admit that only proved to oblige her into more of those little trysts with the other members. That expression on his face was just priceless.

And, ohh, when she toyed with his rival, ran curious digits down the tall, unyielding man's chest, he would simply seethe with rage.

It must've been the magnetism of earth, or … perhaps more the way two heavenly bodies would repel each other. The heavy, substantial boulders envied the soft grasses, and the sultry blossoms coveted the arid, rigid mountains.

Then again, it was always promising for her, when she played this little game, dining on the 5th member's lust for her. Marluxia would always come to her within the following days, attempt to disrupt her with a vulgar show of everything she meant to him.

Maybe that was his way of thinking he was spiting her; leaving her licentious and pleading.

He would remind her she was his and his alone, and she could only respond by professing she was no object to be held—but they both knew she was lying. She was an object. She was his object, to be dirtied by the soils of his hands alone.

And as much as they both knew she was lying, neither would ever stand for correction. This was a beautiful admission, what neither of them ever actually dared to admit. Faced with the truth, who knew which would be the quicker to run away?

But still the next day it would be the same: she would lure him in with pretext, and keep him there with the same counterfeit words he used to keep himself awake at night.

He would fall into his jealousy, just as he always did.

_The end may justify the means, love … but it doesn't matter if they're both synthetic. _


	3. Theme 2: Rivalry :My Accolade:

**Title: **Catch Me If You Can.  
**Prompt: **Theme 2: "Rivalry".  
**Rating: **General/Teen. Just a kiiiiss.  
**Author's Notes: **I ... actually had fun with this one. But I'm beginning to think all this drabble writing is bad for my health. -Grin.-  
**Disclaim:** MINE ALL MINE. Except ... not. Nomura and Squeenixney, yo.

* * *

They had similar strengths, really.

Neither of them would dare compliment the other, but in retrospect they had distinct parallels when it came to warfare. They were both sleek and agile, preferring to move, use magick, and all the sharpest instruments in the world that would never even come near what their language could do.

Larxene's language was of course far more … brassy than that of her contesting comrade.

But they _moved _likewise, fast and forceful, hard and yet still flippant and gentle in their own right.

They were fluent: in their body language, in their expertise …

Only was it when Marluxia stop giving chase to the nymph was there a victor; and, really, 'victor' was not the correct term. Merely as Marluxia promised it to be a rain check (or lack of rain, as all else he seemed to be watering plants).

They would flitter through the hallways and strongholds, vacant halls and whitewash effigies, dazzling with power and energy or smooth with foliage and flora. Both would smile: the blonde vixen, alight with adrenaline and cruelty, the burgundy assassin with the aura of a cold-blooded killer beneath his civility.

Only once had there ever been a true victor.

The same dance of footsteps and alacrity, valiant strides and craven dodges, electricity nullified against the dull shield of bark. There was laughter, haughty and full but somehow still lacking, and then threats, low and dangerous that was deficient of nothing. Nadirs and zeniths, the entire battle, leaving dust in the wake for lower creatures to busy themselves with. No rest for the useless.

Or the wicked, as it seemed. Larxene rounded a harsh corner, twined about as momentum carried her to see her suitor.

And he was gone. A sharp heel skidded to the ground, weapons out in a flash of capricious defense.

But there was nothing but silence. Slow. Sensitive. Mournful. The minutes drained away. No attack came.

Electricity sparked and her weapons dissipated. No attack came.

Toes clicked on marble impatiently. No attack came.

She threw up her hands in frustration. Damnable man, leaving their fight. Patience was no virtue of _hers. _She turned on her heel with a derisory huff, marching back to her room with a click boots that would make the brawniest of men in the castle turn right back from whence they came.

As soon as her door slammed open, she was enveloped in black, both panic and tenacity rising up from her spine. She shoved against that firm obsidian wall and …

… and …

A mouth was on hers. Hot, moist …_ needy. _

She withered in the grasp, eyes falling to half mast, even as she tried to summon all the power within her to glare at the scythe-wielder and shove him away again.

And that _smirk_ when he pulled away: it almost made her _sick._

"My accolade, I trust? As it seems I have just won our battle."


	4. Theme 3: Life :Respect Me, Kill Me:

**Title:** Can't Waste A Single Moment.  
**Prompt:** Theme 3: "Life".  
**Rating:** M/R: violence, blood, death, language.  
**Author's Notes:** I absolutely hate how Larxene dies. In the game all they show is her being defeated by Sora (for the most part), but in the manga she's felled by Donald and Sora using blizard and fire at the same time to melt the ice and drench her while she's all electric-y. So I decided to rewrite her death to how I think it should happen. -Grin.- And, yes, this is my very warped opinion of the theme "life". XD  
**Disclaim:** Characters are pwned by Nomura and Squeenixney. I borrow them occassionally. Let's pretend that's okay.

* * *

She was drenched in the blood she loved so much.

That fact should have been a surprise. It should have made him want to run to her, hold her and nurse her back to health. And at a weapon's point, he would possibly have swallowed his pride and admitted that, indeed, he did. Gods, he wanted to.

But even in swallowing his own pride, he could not make her do the same. Still, as tears of blood wept from her trembling frame, she was all business: firm eyes, firm jaw, loose-lipped smirk.

"Couldn't kill the little bastard. Fucker's actually a decent fighter."

He should have realized: the awkward, choppy lacerations were those ordained only after the passage of that _lovely _weapon. They were oozing the black mist that was significant of serious injuries. The one just above her breasts seemed especially bad.

And suddenly there was no sound: not the whisper of black spilling out of the lightning witch or the lulling promise of oblivion. Even Marluxia could not hear his erratic breath or boots on marble or the shuffling of his coat.

The woman's pride be _damned _. He _would _hold her as she took her last breath. This moment would not be wasted on indecision or arrogance.

And when he did scoop up her waist in strong, calloused hands, he was reminded of her frail nature. She was a woman. Mayhaps a hollow woman, maybe even just the shell of a woman … but that shell was soft and flush, her body tender beneath all of her bravado.

She winced her pain, perhaps the first sign he'd seen in years of what was left of her humanity. To his surprise, she did not push him away, or even raise her limbs to try, favoring instead to simply lean into that comfortable static.

"I'm going to die."

The statement made the claret traitor stare, but as much as it stunned him, it clearly did not her. Her voice was steady, that of a person who had accepted their fate long ago, the tone of someone who had given up hope for life and had settled for the next best thing: power.

"Kill me."

He continued to gape at the woman beneath his gloved hands, candid in his disbelief. But she ever played the evasive diplomacy, turning her eyes away from him. He had a thought of how beautifully dirty her flaxen hair looked in her face … but he shoved it away.

He had to consider, and he had to make his decision quickly. The keyblade wielder was closing in. He could feel his presences grow ever stronger, ever nearer, ever more livid.

He didn't give a sigh or hang his head. He didn't plead with her to reconsider or to allow him to whisk here away for tonics. Instead, he just gave a short nod, the bizarre mix of purple and blue in his eyes telling the woman nothing.

He understood. He was perhaps the only one who understood. She didn't want to die by the hands of someone she did not respect, and respect was hard to come by in a nymph's world.

He summoned his weapon in a flurry of petals and leaves, and she returned his nod, as though giving him the support he must have looked like he needed. Fingers twitched on the handle of the weapon, leather creaking as he tightened his grip knowingly. She was duty-bound to him, and the silver curve of his weapon would be her final reprieve.

He watched her mouth move on the back swing, but his mind was in such a haze, he simply didn't understand her words.

His battle with his comrade's murderer would be soon enough, and the movement of those lips would play over and over in his mind. She had uttered no gratitude, but … had she…?

_I love you. _


	5. Theme 30: Always :Je T'aime:

**Title: **Don't Ever Leave Me.  
**Prompt: **Theme 30: Always.  
**Fandom: **Kingdom Hearts.  
**Characters: **Larxene and Marluxia.  
**Word Count: **347. So short. Xx  
**Rating: **R/M. Sexual content.  
**Author's Notes: **BEWARE. FRENCH. XD Personally, I'm not a fan of the French language. But Larxene strikes me as the type, seeing as she's always reading Marquis de Sade, the french father of sadism. Some of his transcripts have to still be in the native language. And Marluxia strikes me as the multi-lingual type. So I figured I'd incorporate that into one of my drabbles. I did RESEARCH! -Grin.- And once again, you get my warped take on prompts.

* * *

"He says Nothingness lasts for ever."

"I am inclined to think he's wrong."

"Does anything last forever?"

"No."

She hated how crisp his voice was, stating simple fact to be accepted or declined, but not argued. It was impossible to argue with that man, no matter how much she tried to worm into his temperment. He was just too calm.

Most of the time she didn't even have an interest in what she was trying to get him to argue about. She just wanted to play Devil's Advocate to get him to react. She was good at it, really. But he never fell victim.

A wine eyebrow quirked as his eyes left his work and to the slender, gloved digits the nymph knew so well how to work. Pointer and index were extending and walking a trail from his knee up to the folds of his coat bristling over his lap.

"Could this last forever?"

There was a pause, but Larxene was entirely sure there was no consideration within the staccato beat. The man likes testing her limits.

"Instances last forever within moments. Each exist as a singularity, and cannot be undone."

Her brows creased in indignation and her hand paused on his leg. "Spare me the dismal attempt at poetry, will you? You've already nailed me, so let's stop pretending we don't need to spice up the sex."

There was a predatory smirk pulling at his lips, a capable hand on her shoulder and pushing her down onto the mattress she had been so indolently occupying while he was at his desk. He was on her with insatiable voracity, lips and tongue and teeth claiming her throat while a busied hand seized her breast, making her arch into the warmth of his palm, hips surrendering under the weight of his own.

"Au contraire. Je t'aime."

She writhed beneath the cynical disclosure, hissing when he gave a bite all too hard to her collarbone. She remained seditious even in his seductions. "Le réalité et toi, vous ne vous entendez pas, n'est-ce pas?"

"Pas du tout."

* * *

**More A/N Stuff:**  
So I'll translate.  
-_"Au contraire. Je t'aime." _"On the contrary. I love you." He's saying this rather sarcastically in response to her crude humor.  
-_"Le réalité et toi, vous ne vous entendez pas, n'est-ce pas?" _"You and reality don't get along too well, do you?"  
-_"Pas du tout." _"Of course not." This is actually fairly witty. There are many ways to give a negative response, but he uses "**Pas **nu tout" because her previous statement used 'pas' in it twice. 


	6. Theme 22: Pain :Bitch Is Psychotic:

**Title:** Don't Let It Stop.  
**Prompt:** Theme 22: Pain // I want it to stop.  
**Fandom:** Kigndom Hearts  
**Characters:** Larxene and Marlxia  
**Word Count:** 441  
**Rating:** Mature like woah.  
**Author's Notes:** Sorry I haven't been posting much. I owe several drabbles to several people--I've just been busy. Project, paper, presentation, finals, graduation, et cetera. -Rubs head sheepishly.- But, of course, when I return I bring goodies. Enjoy. 3 Btw, why do I always seem to write from Marluxia's point of view? I'm _much_ more the Larxene type. Also, I tried to give this an extemporraneous feel. Then again, my writing's in a slump.

* * *

Pain meant nothing to him. It had only been an occurrence of searing neurons conveying a loss of homeostasis that his body would naturally correct. As a nobody, it was only the _memory of _an occurrence of searing neurons conveying a loss of homeostasis that his body would naturally correct. It was science, and something he wanted very little to do with.

Larxene, however … well … that bitch was psychotic.

She would actively seek to inflict or be imposed with the bodily answer, even as hers was an empty shell with delayed reactions.

And it wasn't long before he learned to become transfixed by the way she cut at them as though they could all bleed. She'd have his hips firmly pinned beneath her thighs, threatening to impale his hands if he dared to try and touch her. When he got particularly brave (or particularly testy), he would disobey her for even just the faintest fingerprints down her spine.

She always kept her word--impaled him, and when feeling spiteful, leave him mystified and desperate.

She could be a beast at times, all yellow-and-blue claws, weird antennae, reared up on her haunches from the spikes on her heel, and a mouth spitting more electricity than her body. The beast was docile sometimes, sure. Vexen called her Marluxia's lapdog at some point, and she had maintained a certain regal atmosphere around him, had maybe taken on too much politeness.

Of course, they both knew the only time when she was actually in his lap was when she was riding it. She had him wrapped around her pretty little finger (or claw, if you're keeping up with that beasty reference).

He loved a pushy woman, though. Really loved it; her unabashed will to dominate him and wanton sexual dominion that reigned over both of his lives'. She could shiver beneath him all she liked, but his was never lackluster enough to allow his ego a stroke--he knew she was only doing it for her pleasure.

And that was where he found his magic potion: between her quivering shoulders, above her vicarious, and somewhere deeper than the lurid hollow behind her sternum. Sometimes when he craned his head just right, took a lap at that elixir he was dying for, he could taste the astringent resolve melting into utopia.

Then again, maybe it was only the blinding luminance of when she fought for what was hers.

And sometimes, he swore she'd cry rape with every explicit moan.


	7. Theme 14: Content :Wicked and Hungry:

**Title: **With You.  
**Prompt: **14: Content // Only place I want to be is with you  
**Rating: **Late Teen.  
**Author's Notes: **This is short and not one of my favorites, but I really need to work on these. I've just been in a horrible inspiration slump.  
**Disclaim:** Squenixney/Nomura.

* * *

It was one of those rare moments, the dark cradle of nothingness vanquished for night, even in a place where night was never gone. There was silver, and silence, and some kind of resplendence with his arm draped over her, her feral snarl tame for once and her hair tickling against his arm and neck.

He kissed her as she slept peacefully, pacified by a fake moon and the distant hums of thunder that reverberated in her dreams: dreams without him.

Her dreams would always be without him. But he was okay with that. He could live with that, so long as she kept on imagining her wonders of infidelity.

She seeped into him as she slept, as she breathed low and shallow and her fingers twitched with her reverie. She snuck under his skin, slipped into his veins, lured his defenses down with her tongue and hips, swerving and curling into his belly like the slow beat of a bass.

She filled that empty cavity with some kind of panacea, a medicine meant only for him that didn't really heal him at all. It just filled him from longing for more until she slurped it away.

She would do. She was enough.

And even in her sleep, her lips would curl to a dangerous smile, lips all over him and kissing away his terror, a wicked garden luring in a hungry man. And he was so very hungry, aching and empty, so starved for power and affection and affliction.

Sometimes her dreams sang out to him, pulled him down into the introvert splendor of her arms, white and creamy and thick, flowing around him like silk in a lifeless underwater world.

Everything was bared for her, as much as he tried to hide it away. She was his witch, his depraved little temptress that cast her spell over him every time.

But the most maddening thing of it all was he enjoyed it, being hunted and pinned and raped of everything he had and wanted, even as he was left filled, starved, and begging for more with plenty of cold rejection between her breasts.

She hated him, he wanted her, and they completed each other's sickly evil.


	8. Theme 10: Sound :The Silver Spoon:

**A/N**: I initially sat down to force myself to write this, but once I picked a prompt and started writing, it just ... flowed. Maybe I'm finally getting some inspiration back. Lar may seem a little weird in this one, but I kind of wanted to write from the angle that she _is_ a woman, and like most women, even she gets swept off her feet.

Also, I apologize if anything is wrong about this. I was in choir when I was younger, but I'm not ... exactly ... well, I'm kind of instrumentally challenged. The idea is that I _sound_ smart, right? XD

**Disclaim: **Nomura and Squeenixney.

* * *

He always did have unique actions. Things left over from his past life that managed to filter into his existence of everyday.

He would write constantly, and it wasn't always the stipple point of designing plans of rebellion, either. Surely the man wrote in a journal where she could only admire the rare slouch of his shoulders and the tendon atop his knuckles relaxed.

She noticed often he had beautiful hands. Not effeminate, not masculine, but ... primed.

There were other nuances that made her laugh internally--if not sometimes cruelly. And they were all simple things, delicate things, degrees of oddness that she noticed in none of her other ... "comrades".

He liked sweets. But never too much to be overpowering. He'd steal the occasional chip of chocolate to melt on his tongue, or a small spoonful of cumquat crème pie, a bitterness just enough to be delectable.

And when he was feeling particularly generous, he'd offer her a finger full of the whipped cream, and though she hated to submit to him, the saccharine call was simply too overpowering.

He would play music. Something orchestral and grand, but eloquent and … still so delicate. He would simply sit in his own silence, eyes open and reading the invisible notes before him, perusing through the sixty-fourth beats like they were second nature. His brow would twitch on the one-hundred twenty-eighth beats, but that ripple would smooth out after a moment of thought.

Only half as vividly did she remember the facts on music he told her--how Mannheim made possible the impossible of not switching back and forth between piano and forte and constant--as when he swept her up one crescendo and twirled her about the room on her heels.

She had strangled movements and awkward steps as he attempted to ease her into the affluent cleanliness of motion.

He told her, "You were born with a silver spoon on your tongue. One would assume you would put it to good use."

Cellos roared and she was pulled close. Violins screamed and excitement wound around her. Saxophones were accompanied with the sensual whisper of newlyweds. Trumpets and tubes and horns clashed and grated like lightning friction against her body. Cymbals clashed with deafening tones and she was lost in the bliss of being in his arms.

A celesta and he released her. A flute and she twirled.

Down to chimes and a light piano and those quiet little chimes of the xylophone to cover the triangle's herald ... and she was left in rapture and breathlessness.

The decrescendo was enough to blow the dust out of the hollow in her chest, stir it up for maybe just the quietest of throbs in her ear, if there was a God.

He kissed her, knowing there was another crescendo soon.

It was only the beginning.


	9. Theme 12: Devotion :My Fair Lady:

**Author's Note:** This was actually a dream I had, so it has some personal semblance to me. I was thinking of writing it involving someone else, but I think this turned out well enough. Rated G, no spoilers or anything.

**Disclaimer: **Tetsuya Nomura, Square-Enix, and Disney.

* * *

It was a simple song on a simple scale. He'd only twice heard her hum it and had never heard her vocalize. He knew it must've been a forbidden fruit far to sweet for her to divulge in, wisteria in her lungs as she failed to realize the austere keys churned in her clenched throat.

He wanted to know this song. It was a hymn for a God, he swore. It was so easy and beautiful and he knew it had something tragic, because it was her. She was singing about herself.

He spent days asking every member but her where this song may've come from. Few knew the exact world the witch had been conceived upon and even fewer knew its lore. No comrade's mind was unravished in searches for the delicate tune he had memorized from her—the way he memorized her body.

Not even the member so proud of his music knew this one.

Research. Pages of it, littering his desk as its scent changed from dragon's blood to sterile, decomposed oak. He tried to find those magical notes. Keys of pianos and strums of sitars and tender tweets of flues all seemed wrong, wrong, _wrong._

A more hands-on approach was needed. He scowered worlds, walking in fallen black feathers and greeted Hati and Skoll on his voyage, scuffing in brimstone and all thirty-four cantos.

And then he found her: a girl in white that was too ethereal to be tangible, chestnut brown hair curling in her face with eyes downcast and unreadable.

Such a charming, alive little girl shouldn't have been in a dingy, monocrome world. It was black and white, dreary and on the edge of crumbling into darkness. He could see the world's axes crumbling and feel its core tremble with anticipation for the end.

She was real. She was the anomally, the spot of wrong.

Just like a nymph. And she sang like a siren.

_"__London bridge is fal__l__i__ng down,_

_Falling down,_

_Falling down."_

He needn't hear any more of the sick rhyme.

He went to her, pulled her small frame to him and almost cried to the secret curve of her bare shoulder.

"Marluxia?"

"My fair lady," He sang back.

Let London Burn.


	10. Theme 25: Dream :Dead Men Of The Past:

Sadly, this is fairly short. But I still like the concept, which, admittedly, I kind of got the idea from ejaculatedteabag. So... Yeah. 3

Does not belong to me, do not want (liiiiies).

* * *

"Do you think we'll go to heaven?"

The question had been bothering her since the Nocturne had asked her. Certainly, she had denied him at first, dismissing the question for the trivial riffraff that usually spouted out of his mouth.

But Marluxia's mouth on hers, his lips on her skin, his body weight atop her … he couldn't help the question break past the dam in her throat, the surprising strike of lightning on the ground that quaked him to the bone.

He stared at her, the brilliant amethyst questioning the glimmer of her lips and the questioning pants on her chest.

"… What?" He asked her to repeat, and as much as she didn't want to, her vision turned away and she quelled her breath.

"Do you … think we'll … go to heaven?"

He obviously had no answer. He sat back on his haunches, and as tempting as her half-bare flesh beneath him was to look at, to touch, to caress … he couldn't. He was lost in trying to depict the question in her eyes which even she even refused to rise.

Slowly, he smiled, raising a hand to her jaw and pulling her glance back.

"For all you know, Heaven is like being driven by your mother day after day to Alcoholics Anonymous. Heaven's like sitting in a circle of eternity, holding hands with the great dead men the past."

Her gaze softened a little, cold, hard indigo fading to a soft sky.

"Heaven is not being allowed to dream."


End file.
